In Her Blood
by Amorai
Summary: Years before Erik was caught up in the fatal love triangle that shattered his life, he was part of another triangle that ended up leading him to Christine. A backstory into the Phantom universe, featuring Gustave Daaé, Christine's father.
1. The Audition

**Author's blurb: I started this in 2009 expanding on a possibility suggested in the plot. After putting it aside for a year and then some, I recently got back on it. Hope you enjoy!**

Chapter One: The Audition

1831

The strappy seventeen-year-old youth took a deep breath, releasing it slowly between gritted teeth to calm down. It didn't help. His hands shook slightly as he paced around and around the small room, his eyes straying every several seconds to his violin, lying inside its velvet-lined case. His breathing returned to its shallow state and he cursed himself. More than nine years of public performing and he was letting the matter of a simple audition get to him. He had done this thing. Why on earth was he so nervous?

_Because it's __**the**__ audition_, his mind replied.

He shook his head. The director of the Opera Populaire had learned of his prodigious talent with the violin and had offered him an exclusive spot, highly vied for in his orchestra, where he could work with adult musicians. His father had encouraged him to take the opportunity. As much as he loved his music, he could never learn to love the occasional nerves he got before an audition or performance.

He inhaled deeply. "Oh, Lord, help me perform well and prove my worth among adult masters…I am so nervous…please, I beg you," he said aloud desperately.

"You seem to be in need of assistance," An unfamiliar voice suddenly said to him.

Gustave started and looked around confusedly, unable to pinpoint the source of the voice. He was alone. "Who are you?" he replied nervously.

"Someone who wants you to succeed in your coming audition," the voice answered.

"Why should I take your word?" Gustave hedged.

"I pray you'll forgive me if I sound conceited, but I consider myself quite an expert on the violin. If you'd rather not take proffered advice from a seasoned master…" the voice trailed off.

"You sound like you're my age," Gustave muttered, loud enough for the mysterious voice to hear. "Very well. What can you help me with?"

"Your lack of relaxation, first of all," the voice said seriously. "Whether or not you're relaxed can make all the difference during your audition. When relaxed, the mind grows quiet and you are able to remember crucial details and focus much more easily. Have you experienced this before?"

Gustave thought back to all the times he had been frustrated over a passage in his sheet music, compared to when he approached it with a calm mind. "Yes, come to think of it, I have," he said, still feeling strange for talking to the walls and waiting for an answer.

"It's a common enough phenomenon. The mind is capable of tapping into its own genius when you let it. Would you like me to help you?"

Gustave paused. To an outsider, he would be talking to the walls. There was no quicker way to convince others that you had lost your wits than deciding to seemingly carry on conversations with oneself. On the other hand, whether some celestial hallucination or some flesh-and-blood soul, someone was offering him aid. His nerves were near breaking point. What did he have to lose?

"All right," he said aloud, his voice echoing off the halls.

"Good," the voice replied. "Now, follow me and do as I say. Imagine that you are on the shore of your native Sweden, all alone with the water surging onto the rocks. Your violin is with you. Can you see it?"

The strange voice was lulling and smooth, helping Gustave's mind conjure the mental images in sharp detail. "Yes, I can," he replied, his voice distant.

"Very good. Pause and look around, and feel the powerful energy of nature settle itself deep in your body. Now, in your mind's eye, take up your violin…"

Gustave found himself listening to the voice with rapt attention as it led him through a perfect mental rendition of his audition piece, then gave him reminders on relaxation, technique, and posture.

"Gustave Daaé!" a piercing voice called, breaking his concentration. "It is time!"

"This is all the help I can give you," the voice said. "Go with a bold heart and a calm mind. The best of luck to you."

"Thank you," Gustave replied. He was on his way out the door, violin and bow in hand, when he thought of asking the voice what its name was. He turned halfway around, intending to ask, but sensed that the voice had already disappeared. Shrugging to himself, he turned back around and left the room.

He slid to the center of the stage, vast and unending in its emptiness. Monsieur Pollegny, the orchestra director, sat in the center of the front row, cross-legged, his generous mustache fluttering with every breath. Monsieur Chiron, the owner of the Opera Populaire, sat next to him in his crisp suit, sharp-eyed and still.

"When you are ready, Monsieur Daaé," Monsieur Pollegny stated.

Gustave closed his eyes for a moment, hearing the hissing of dying waves in his mind as they slid back into the seas of Sweden. He opened his eyes, calm flooding through his arms and legs, raised his bow to the strings and began to play a movement from Mendelssohn's violin concerto.

Monsieur Chiron's expression did not change from its impassive state, but the face of Monsieur Pollegny gradually transformed from neutral into one of pleased encouragement as Gustave continued playing. Spurred on, Gustave relaxed as his bow flitted across the strings.

The side door to the theater opened and he almost stopped playing in surprise as a willowy, dainty-footed teenage girl approached the two formidable men in the audience nervously.

"Madamoiselle Giry?" Monsieur Chiron asked curiously.

"Céline," Gustave said under his breath in surprise as he continued playing.

Céline stepped up to Monsieur Chiron. "For you, Monsieur, an urgent message," she said softly, holding a folded paper out to him.

"_Merci_, Madamoiselle Giry," he said, nodding at her and taking the paper. Céline's eyes met Gustave's for a few seconds and he nodded at her minutely. _I didn't forget the arrangement we made_, he though in response to her silent question. Céline left, and Gustave focused on his playing, sighing in relief as he successfully executed a complicated series of notes that had been giving him trouble only the night before.

"That is sufficient, Monsieur Daae," Monsieur Pollegny said as Gustave finished, smiling at him. "Very well done for so young a musician."

"Yes. Quite excellent, indeed," Monsieur Chiron added, a smile suddenly blooming over his face as well. "_Merci beaucoup_, you may go."

Gustave smiled exultantly and walked off the stage. Despite being in the latter half of adolescence, he couldn't stop himself from skipping in delight the instant he was in the wings and hidden in shadow.

He flew back to the small room, laying his violin back in its case carefully, then quickly snapped it closed, took it by the handle and strode out the room. He then found the nearby flight of stairs Céline had told him about. Climbing up them, he went to the end of the hall, turned right and entered an unlocked room. Shutting it carefully, he looked around. The room was quite bare except for a spacious window seat that looked out on Paris. His eyes lighted on Céline, who was standing a few feet away from him, a faint smile on her face.

"Céline…hello," he said softly, laying his violin case down on the floor and walking over to her.

She beamed more widely and took his empty hands, leading him to the window seat. She sat across from him, her legs tucked under her slender body and hidden among her gauzy ballerina's skirt.

"I was very impressed by your audition, Gustave," she remarked, smiling softly at him. "Mendelssohn was a wonderful choice. You told me that you only started practicing the concerto a week ago, yet you sounded like a master when I heard you playing."

_Like a master…_the memory of the strange voice from above came back to him.

Céline had noticed his change in expression. She touched his hand. "What is it?"

Gustave frowned for a moment before answering. "I had help…of a sort…just before I was called to audition, I was extremely nervous and couldn't focus. I prayed aloud that the Lord would help me perform well and prove my worth, and suddenly—and suddenly a voice answered."

Something flickered in Céline's eyes, but before Gustave could recognize what it was, it was gone. "Go on," she urged.

He looked out the window at the bustling streets of Paris. "This voice coached me on relaxation techniques. Afterwards it gave me advice on note accuracy, posture, stage presence…things that in my nine years of playing, I had never known. He claimed to be a master on the violin and I believed him—and yet, he sounded like he was only as old as you or I." He turned away from the window to look at her. "How is that possible?"

Céline looked away from him, twisting her fingers in trepidation. Glancing at her friend, she decided on the truth.

"I know who the voice is," she said quietly.

"A spirit of some long-deceased violin prodigy?" Gustave guessed.

"No," she said, laughing a little. "He's a living person, and I know him fairly well. He is seventeen years old, the same age as you, and extremely private, I might add. That's why you didn't see him, only heard his voice." She hesitated, then said, her voice suddenly low and urgent, "Gustave, you must swear to me never to tell this to anybody else."

"Why?" he asked, bewildered.

"Promise me. Please," Céline pressed.

"I promise," Gustave said. "But I still don't understand. Why is he here, another youth with commendable skill on the violin? I thought I was the only one auditioning for the special spot in the pit orchestra. Was he my competitor?"

"I think not," she answered. "You see, he lives in the Opera Populaire, but always keeps to himself. Very few people know about him, so you are very lucky that he made himself known to you."

"But who _is_ he, Céline?" Gustave asked, a little frustrated. "He wouldn't even tell me his name."

Céline bit her lip for a moment before replying. "Gustave, did you hear about the travelling Gypsy fair a while ago that was showcasing the Devil's Child as the main attraction, and that the Devil's Child escaped after killing his owner?"

"Yes," Gustave said slowly, a little confused by this turn in the conversation. "But what does that have to do with the voice in the room?"

Céline took a deep breath. "That was the voice you heard."

Gustave opened his mouth in shock and then closed it, unable to respond or do much else other than gape at her soundlessly for a moment. "I was talking with the Devil's Child, who is living in this opera house?" He finally managed in a faint voice.

She inclined her head in assent.

"I was taking advice from a mutilated killer our age who was claiming to be a master on the violin?" he asked in a shocked voice.

Céline shook her head, remembering the pitiful state he had been in when she first saw him. "He's not a mutilated killer, Gustave. He strangled his owner because that was the only way he could escape. But Gustave, your heart would have been broken like mine if you had seen him. Locked helplessly in his cage like an animal while his owner beat him so cruelly…exposing his marred face to the world so everyone could jeer and throw bread at him…it was heartbreaking. He didn't choose to be like this, and see how he has paid for it so dearly!" Her face twisted a little as she relived those moments. "But his owner—licking his lips greedily while counting up the money from the fairgoers, money that he had gotten from humiliating and beating a mere boy—forgive me for saying so, but I think he really may have deserved to die for inflicting such horrors, day after day, on an innocent person." Céline closed her eyes and sucked in her breath. "I was the only other person there when he killed him. Knowing what he would suffer through if caught, I took him with me back to the Opera Populaire and hid him. That was three years ago, and he has stayed here ever since. He trusts me because I saved him, but there are many things even I do not know about him, and never dared to ask."

Gustave sat in silence for a moment, studying his hands. Then he looked up. "He's also a master at the violin?"

Céline shrugged lightly. "There are many facets to him. He asked me one day if it was possible I bring him one. There were precious few options available to me—even now I cannot dream of buying one, you know they are expensive—so I ended up smuggling a spare one to him from the storage room for the pit orchestra. But once I heard him playing, I was completely spellbound. I do not know where he got his musical inclinations from, but for his seventeen years, he is a true genius. He makes his presence known to very few in this opera house and trusts even less—he has a good impression about you, Gustave."

He shook his head in wonder. "You never told anyone about this?"

"I saw no reason to," Céline said mildly, and Gustave laughed.

"It's late," he sighed, looking at the setting sun sinking determinedly over the Parisian skyline. "I must go."

Céline nodded and slipped her slender legs over the ledge of the window seat, landing lightly on the ground. Gustave crossed to the doorway and picked up his violin case. Céline followed him to the door, smiling. "Do you think you impressed Monsieurs Pollegny and Chiron today?" she asked, her eyes sparkling playfully.

Gustave thought fleetingly of the mysterious voice that had shared invaluable advice during the excruciating wait. "With luck, yes," he replied. He took Céline's hand in his free one. "In which case I will be seeing you soon, and we will have a great many days to talk. Farewell."

He turned around and was about to go, but looked over his shoulder when Céline caught his arm.

"Please, Gustave, one more time. Promise me you will never mention this to anybody."

He looked at her pleading, anxious eyes, peering at him like two stars. He nodded earnestly. "I promise. I swear."

"Thank you," Céline whispered as Gustave took his leave.


	2. A New World

Chapter Two: A New World

Three days later

Gustave touched the ironed and starched envelope from the Opera Populaire that bore his name, his hands shaking slightly. His parents shared a look from the opposite side of the table. Very nervously, he opened the envelope, drew out the paper and unfolded it. As his eyes raced down the handwritten lines of ink, he was seized with a sudden desire to dance, shouting and whooping in delight. He lowered the letter with shining eyes and looked at his parents. "I am to join them this coming Friday."

His father reached across the small table and put a hand on his shoulder, smiling broadly. "Well done, my son. I'm proud of you, so proud."

His mother went around the table and hugged him. "We'll miss you, my dear."

Gustave smiled and patted her on the back. "Do not fret so much, Mother. I'll be right here in Paris and you can visit as often as you want."

"Every day, then," his father said, smiling slightly.

"You ought to start packing, Gustave," his mother said, drawing away from him slightly and fixing the collar of his shirt. "Friday isn't far away."

It was Friday night, and Gustave was settling down into his new room at the Opera Populaire. It was a somewhat cramped but pleasant thing, with two beds, a small table and no real room to walk.

"How long are you staying?" Céline asked Gustave as she helped him hang up his clothes in the small closet allotted to him.

Gustave thought for a few seconds, and the magnitude of his answer staggered him slightly. "Several years at least. Maybe more than ten," he said.

"I'm glad to hear that," Céline replied.

"Céline," Gustave said, catching her eye as he handed her a shirt to hang up. "The voice I talked to—do you think I'll hear him again?"

Céline paused for a moment, deep in thought. "I guarantee it," she said.

A strange quiver of fear crept through him. "What do I address him by?"

"To those few who know of his existence, he is addressed as the Opera Ghost. To me alone, he granted me permission to address him by his real name, Erik."

Gustave nodded. Then he voiced something that had worried him for the last few days. "Should I fear him?"

Céline took a while to answer. "You shouldn't fear him," she said slowly, "but be wary of his ways. He abhors talking about his past, so don't ask him personal questions. He can also have quite the temper, but you needn't fear that so much from him—he recognizes your enormous talent and highly respects you for that. I can't say he always has a gentle soul, but he means well."

And so Gustave's stay at the Opera Populaire began. He was respected and admired by his fellow adult musicians due to his talent and charisma, and they treated him as an equal. Apart from being a little homesick, especially when his parents came and left leaving his room empty once more, he enjoyed the energetic, hectic life in the opera house. Although he devoured sheet music by the masters in his spare time, he studiously abstained from the spontaneous gatherings riddled with alcohol that sprang up, especially at night.

Some weeks passed with no sound from the Opera Ghost, and Gustave started wondering if he had just imagined the voice from above and Céline's secret trove of information. One night, he was alone in his room putting away his beloved violin when the silence was suddenly broken.

"It seems that you've been readily accepted into the society of the Opera Populaire," the voice said, startling him. He heard a note of something like jealousy in the voice and answered carefully.

"I cannot help that. That was their decision, not mine," he replied, choosing his words with delicacy. He knew instinctively that the Opera Ghost had never known acceptance in his life, and took care not to arouse his wrath.

"That is true," the voice said quietly. "How very kind of them, to embrace any newcomer who has a decent amount of talent."

Gustave heard the bitterness in those words and bit back his reply, waiting in silence.

"My apologies. My life has been difficult, very different from yours," the disembodied voice said after a moment.

"I understand. My friend explained to me," Gustave said.

"Your friend!" the voice shot out like a whip. "Who?"

Gustave took a deep breath. "Céline Giry."

"Céline," the voice sighed. "I see." There was silence for several seconds. Then, "So she told you who I am?"

"Yes."

"Who I _really_ am?" the voice pressed.

"She did," Gustave answered, keeping his voice low to hide the nervousness in it. If Céline was going to suffer for his moment of rashness just a few moments ago…

Another silence fell, and it stretched on for the longest yet. Gustave wondered if the Opera Ghost had disappeared, and put his bow back into his violin case carefully.

"I trust very few people in this world," the voice murmured.

Gustave straightened up. "You have my word that I will not tell a single soul about your identity."

"Some people don't have souls," the voice said wryly.

"I will tell nobody," Gustave corrected himself.

"I do not trust you," the voice said, an edge in his words.

A spark of mild indignation ignited in Gustave's mind. "Céline is your acquaintance and also my friend," he said. "If I turn you in, she also suffers retribution for helping you escape. For your sake and especially for hers, I will not tell anyone."

Silence. Then, "Very well, then. I'm willing to trust you…for the time being."

"That's good to know," Gustave said.

The Opera Ghost laughed, and he heard a tiny bit of bitterness that made the laugh a little less joyful, a little less genuine. "Everything's a risk with a new…acquaintance," the voice said. A few seconds of silence. Then, "Anything that you are having trouble with? I may be able to help you."

Gustave thought for a moment. "There is a cadenza in the second act of the _Robert le Diable_ revival…"

"Ah, yes, the second act! I think I know the exact cadenza you speak of. Let's get to work. Which measure does it start on?"

* * *

><p>Five years slid by. Every Hallow's Eve, every Christmas and New Year, Gustave could scarcely believe that yet another year had sped by so fast. His parents continued visiting him, his father saying gruffly more than once that he was prouder of his son than he could say. Gustave also enjoyed wiling away the hours with his roommate, Léon. Léon was a burly fellow who played the cello and enjoyed flirting boisterously with the ballerinas, but he had a surprisingly soft side to him as well. The two of them had lengthy discussions—and disagreements—over art, dance, music and morals. Despite all their differences, they got along well together. Léon's jovial sense of humor and relaxed nature perfectly balanced Gustave's more serious one, and they rarely disagreed for long periods of time.<p>

His relationship with the mysterious Opera Ghost also grew. Time after time, Gustave was stunned that he was fostering a tentative friendship with the Devil's Child, a boy no older than he was. No older, and yet he was a musical genius with a volatile temper, infinite depths of wisdom and a deeply shrouded past who had a tendency to create long silences in conversation and never revealed himself to Gustave. That is, until Gustave found himself in a tight spot with a dangerously intoxicated Joseph Buquet.

Gustave had gotten a fair warning about Buquet from Céline during his first week at the opera house and usually made a point of avoiding the young, crude-mouthed scene shifter, but late one night when walking back to his quarters alone after discussing a musical passage with Monsieur Pollegny, he ran into Buquet, who was fully drunk and stumbling along the hallway, feeling his way along the walls. Having just turned a corner into a poorly-lighted corridor, Gustave bumped into him, ricocheting off his expansive chest and getting a full blast of his foul-smelling breath.

"What in the blazes do you think you're doing? Mother of God, can't you watch where you're going, you stupid boy?" Buquet growled savagely, roughly pushing Gustave away from him.

"I'm very sorry—sir," Gustave said, hurriedly adding in the last word to mollify Buquet, despite the fact that Buquet was only several years older than him. The title of respect didn't seem to appease him; on the contrary, he seemed to inflate like an angry bull to fill the narrow corridor. Not having had much experience with short-tempered men, Gustave shrank back slightly.

"BOY!" The single word came out as a roar from between Buquet's mismatched, stained teeth as he suddenly lunged forward to back Gustave up against the wall. "I've seen you," he snarled, grabbing Gustave roughly by his collar. "The way you play among adult masters, like you're one of them, _pretending_ to be as good as them!" He leered threateningly in Gustave's face, his bloodshot eyes black and dangerous. "And now you think you're the king of this opera house, and that people are going to get out of your way and bow down to you as you strut these halls—even Monsieurs Chiron and Pollegny!" His voice had escalated to a shout.

"Monsieur Buquet, please," Gustave pleaded desperately, ignoring the goads and very aware that Buquet well on his way to one of his notorious drunken rages. "Please calm yourself, sir, you are not right in the head. Listen to what you are saying!"

Buquet did not reply in words. Instead, he suddenly yanked out a gleaming dagger, holding the shining silver blade before Gustave's blanched face. "You have no talent," Buquet sneered, slowly tilting the dagger back and forth to catch the light. "None at all. Perhaps a gut wound—or better yet, a nice deep slash to your playing hand-should be enough to remind you that Monsieurs Chiron and Pollegny let you in by a lucky strike and no more."

Gustave struggled mightily, but the liquor in Buquet's system seemed to have given him strength and he did not ease up his grip on Gustave's collar. Gulping, Gustave silently gave up and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the first cut.

He heard the whirling of a cloak and the sickening sound of a fist colliding hard with human flesh. The grip on Gustave's collar loosened and his eyes blasted open to see Buquet stumbling backwards, his hand to his copiously-bleeding nose. Then a voice fell upon Gustave's ears, a voice filled with a frigid venom so dangerous that goosebumps swept in a rush down his spine.

"If you wish to keep that nose of yours functioning properly, get away from him."

Gustave's eyes swung around of their own accord to find the cloaked figure standing on his left. Slender, dark-haired and tall, the boy looked just as old as he, and he recognized him instantly as possessing the voice that had spoken to him before. The most striking—and frightening—aspect of his appearance was the stark-white mask he wore that covered the entire right half of his face.

Buquet's watery eyes widened for an instant with a drugged fear, then hardened. "Oh, dear, now the jester from this new show we're running sees fit to dish out some death threats. You cannot scare me. Identify yourself!"

In an instant, the masked figure drew himself up to his full height. "Congratulations, Joseph Buquet, for you are the very first person out of my circle of acquaintances to have seen me. I am, sir, the one and only Opera Ghost." At these last two words he raised two fingers to his forehead and flicked them in a mock salute. Then his voice regressed to its previous state of coiled danger. "Despite your seniority where age is concerned, never underestimate me for a moment when I say you do not want me as an enemy. Years ago while you were wailing away on your own violin, wishing for a place here in the Opera Populaire orchestra pit while still managing to squawk on every fourth note, I was killing. Killing people. I am very skilled in the art of death and will dish it out whenever necessary." His bottomless gaze swiveled to Gustave, still standing with his back to the wall, then swung back to Buquet, who was attempting to stem the flow of blood from his nose. His voice was cold enough to strike fear into the bravest man, and it did not lose its iciness as it continued. "I was merciful enough to only break your nose and not your neck. I do not take kindly to people who threaten my friends. _Leave Gustave Daaé alone_ and do not talk about me or try to find me again. Do that and your life shall be spared. Do that and you shall not see me again. If you ever do see me again, know that your own end is near, and that you will die by my hand." Another whirl of his cape and the Opera Ghost was gone.

Wide-eyed with fright, Buquet sputtered in fury and confusion at the cloaked figure's disappearance, but dared not disobey his warning. After several repeated glances at Gustave, he shuffled past him and down the corridor, muttering to himself. Having stood frozen with fear and awe for the past several minutes, Gustave broke his statue-like pose as Buquet turned a corner and disappeared. Panting slightly, unable to believe that the voice he'd been hearing in the walls had revealed itself at last, he fled in the opposite direction, not daring to stop until he reached his cramped quarters. Locking the door tightly, he collapsed on his bed, gratitude for the Ghost's timeliness and disbelief over what he'd just experienced spinning through his mind.

The Opera Ghost remained silent for weeks after the incident, and when he—for indeed, the Ghost was a flesh-and-blood adolescent boy—initiated contact again with Gustave, it was with the air that the incident should not be mentioned under pain of death. Having learned the value of caution when interacting with the Opera Ghost, Gustave took the hint and acquiesced to the Ghost's silent command.


End file.
